Changer of Paths: Another Place
by 3 Sisters of Moon-Shadow-Sun
Summary: [Sequel to River of Red][AU] The Wizarding World is changing, all thanks to the Letters sent by Sagax Iter with choise information. But the girl responsible, sent to this world to change it, is having too easy a time...
1. Chapter 1

**Changer of Paths: Another Place**

**By: Sister Shadow / Li**

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Most stories begin with something like: 'Once upon a time there lived...'; or 'Let me introduce myself. My name is such and such and this is my story...'; and sometimes the prologue is packed with action that either gets you excited about what is to come or leaves you wanting to throw it out a window.

The tale you're about to read starts with none of those. Indeed, it has already begun.

In the beginning, there was a Calling from the Council of Worldly Fates for a Changer of Paths to help redirect the Chosen Path of a world they worried over. The Calling took place in a world much like ours, and the one who answered seemed an ordinary girl. But in fact she wasn't at all, having been trained by an experienced Meddler, a pioneer of that field; her own mother.

Having found their Changer, one who knew of the River of Red and Madness, a place you could easily lose yourself in, the Caller sent her to the world she would be redirecting. Now the new Wheel and Tapestry could be created. She was free to change as much as she liked, as long as no too many tangled webs resulted.

The Leader of the Council spoke to her in a unisex voice and she answered, "I will try my best." That is all they could ask for.

Oh, the world she was sent to? Where else but the world of Harry Potter?

Welcome to _**another place**_, very different than her home world of _**eternity**_.

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**Chapter One****: Normality**

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I: Number Four, Privet Drive, the home of Petunia Dursley

**Petunia **Dursley, formerly Evans and glad to be rid of it, lived a wonderfully normal life. She was raised in a good family, with a mother who stayed at home and a father with an eight hour job. Even it her younger sister turned out disreputable, her life before was still absolutely normal.

As was her marriage. Even though her parents hadn't exactly approved of Vernon, she was in love and it was her choice. They respected her decision to get in engaged, and later married, even if they hadn't attended the wedding.

She was a dutiful wife to her husband and mother to their child, Dudley; a fine, respectable name for such a sweet little fellow. Like her mother, she stayed at home and did everything expected of her: cleaning, cooking, and working the flower beds, a hard but rewarding task.

Her like was completely normal. Or, at least, she liked to think so.

It all change when her sister had to go and get herself blown up. Her nephew, Harry Potter -a nasty, common name, that- was left in her care. More precisely, on the doorstep of Number 4 Privet Drive. Not the most welcome surprise when you find the offspring of your hated sister instead of the usual morning milk.

Petunia, since she'd known there was a baby on the way, had been jealous. The jealousy and envy festered in her until she grew bitter and angry. She could have loved her beautiful, kind sister, if only she'd been normal.

Petunia blamed magic for her own faults and feelings. Being normal became an obsession, and she'd married a man who whole heartedly agreed. She couldn't even have a second child. Lily was born second; what if the child turned out like her... A fear worth avoiding, in her mind. Thank heavens Vernon loved Dudley so!

That boy, though. That Harry Potter. He was lucky they let him live under their roof, for all his freakishness. The letter reminded her of a promise she'd made to her mother, to 'Help all family in need,' and explained more about the wizarding world. Not that she'd read it thoroughly, mind, only the important parts, such as, "Harry Potter must remain in your home, and think of it as his own. If he is away for more than a week, we will come." Sent by some Dumpydoor fellow who she remembered her accursed sister mentioning repeatedly.

Blasted freakishness. They didn't want any in their house, she, Vernon and Dudley.

Now, six years later, nothing was as normal as it had been.

The boy still hadn't woken up, and it was half pasted seven! Who would cook breakfast if he kept lazing about? She'd grown used to putting out the ingredients and having it prepared by the time Vernon woke up.

Petunia pounded on the door to their stair's cupboard, where they so graciously let the boy sleep. "Up! Up! Get up!" she screeched, though to her ears it was more of a yell.

A sleepy, "Yes, Aunt Petunia." was her answer.

Satisfied, she unlocked the door and went back to the kitchen.

The morning passed as usual, though without the boy's usual sass. He did as he was told without complaining, not even burning the bacon as he normally did. Something, she decided, wasn't right.

"Did you hit your head, boy?" she asked, narrowing pale eyes suspiciously.

"No, Aunt Petunia." The boy had the nerve to yawn.

'_He looks half asleep,_' the thought drifted into her head. That must be it, she decided. He was just too tired to complain.

Believe it or not, she was right.

The sound of metal on metal meant the mail had arrived. Vernon, reading his paper, said gruffly, "Boy, get the mail."

"Yes, Uncle Vernon." They didn't even notice his weary, tired trudge, just glad to be rid of him from the room.

**He** stood, staring blindly, in the hallway a moment, then remembered what he was there for. "Mail. Right." No more late night reading, even if the hall light was unintentionally left on again, he decided. That was the reason for his tiredness.

Harry reached down and picked up the thick pile of mail, absently flipping through them, as he'd developed a habit of doing. Bill, bill, letter from Aunt Marge, bill, advertisement, sample-something-or-other, a thick, parchment letter for Aunt Petunia-

He stopped flipping, staring at the innocent, thick papered envelope in his hand.

It was addressed to Petunia Evans Dursley of #4 Privet Drive, written in a plain, easy-to-read script. But the lines had something else to them (an artistic touch perhaps) that he knew couldn't come from a pen.

Intrigued, he continued to stare, until his uncle shouted, "What's taking you, boy?"

Harry hurried back into the kitchen, absently putting two bills before the odd letter addressed for his aunt. He could think it over later, in the dark confines of his cupboard. Now he had to clean up breakfast.

**The** boy took too long to get the mail, and earned a swat from her husband's rolled up newspaper. He was done reading, anyway.

Petunia waited impatiently for the boy to lay the mail on the table and start collecting breakfast dishes so she could supervise. No use leaving him on his own; he might break a plate or three.

Vernon picked up the mail and muttered to himself what it was. She paid him no mind, not even when the rustling papers turned into stunned silence; all her attention was on what the boy was doing.

"Petunia, pet." Her husband's voice cracked. It hardly ever did, and drew her attention away from the boy brushing their crumbs into the dispenser.

She turned to face Vernon and paled at what he held in his trembling hand. "It's a letter from one of them." He trembled, remembering the one time they'd tried to leave the boy with Marge, who'd rid him of his freakishness better than they could. But the other freaks had come within minutes of them dumping him off, and he'd seen what they could do.

"Yes. Vernon, darling-" She stopped and glanced at their adorable son. "Later."

Her husband nodded, putting the letter in his pocket for safe keeping.

**Harry** stopped mid-wipe when he heard the fear in his uncle's voice. As far as he knew, Uncle Vernon wasn't afraid of anything, like his cousin Dudley often boasted. But Dudley was afraid of high places and not getting sweets, from his experience.

He only wondered who 'they' were; the ones that made Aunt Petunia scared too, if he judged her tone right. Maybe if he found out who 'they' were, he could be like them and his aunt and uncle would be scared of him, too.

Or something like that. Best not get his hopes up. It was troubling when they came crashing down.  
--  
**That** night, before turning in, Petunia Dursley sat stiffly on the edge of the bed she shared with her peacefully snoring husband, clutching the Letter. She thought herself smart not to open it, but what if it turned out to be one of those smoking ones her dreadful sister had received one Christmas? It would shout and scream and no doubt wake the neighbors, who would then ask questions she couldn't answer.

It would be best to see what _they_ wanted, wasn't it? She was the only one they contacted; perhaps they'd found someone else to take the boy?

With that thought in mind, she turned the envelope over and inspected the seal. It wasn't the Hogwarts seal, or the one that'd informed her of her sister's untimely demise. No, no where close to either of the two.

She studied it closer, mentally memorizing it so that if another letter came bearing this seal, she would know to burn it upon delivery. If it wasn't fireproof, at least. You never knew what the freaks could, or would, do.

A winding line that was clearly a miniature path went through the middle, surrounded by just as small trees and bushes. Where the path met the wax horizon shone the faint but noticeable outline of a five-pointed star.

Petunia sneered. What horrible taste, though she expected no less. She would use something more pleasant to look at, such as a rose or marigold. Not that she thought about anything of the sort. No, not at all.

Not wanting to ruin her nails by popping the seal (not that she knew how, mind you), she tore the parchment instead. Inside was only one peace of paper, neatly folded, unusually thick and cream colored, same kind as the envelope.

Pulling the letter cautiously from within, the hairs at the nape of her neck stood on end. Taking this as the warning it was, she dropped both papers and put as much distance between them as she could, which wasn't much unless she intended on waking Vernon.

The strange feeling receded, only leaving the dull terror Petunia always felt when anything remotely odd came within a few meters of her. (The boy didn't count, though he did leave her feeling uneasy.)

Chancing a peak over the edge of her bed, Petunia saw only what she expected to see: two pieces of paper lying on her undamaged carpet. She'd have to clean tomorrow, she decided, twice in each room the letter had been in. Unclean thing touching her lovely green floor (which was really a sickly yellow-green color that wouldn't leave a stain if someone pucked), making her do extra work.

Using only the thumb and forefinger of her right hand, Petunia picked up the letter by a corner, letting it unfold due to gravity. Staring at the paper in horror, she muffled a cry.

She couldn't read it! It was upside-down! Now she'd have to touch it, again. Cue shudder.

Flipping it and holding tightly with both hands, Petunia read and reread the only three lines written in that unfamiliar-but-neat handwriting that had addressed this to her. It wasn't Dumpledorfe or anyone else she had heard her sister going on and on about to her parents when she'd only listened for something to mock her sister with later on.

It was simple and to the point, though not very polite.

Three neat, handwritten lines that caused her whole world to come crashing down a second time, the first when Lily received her Letter, though it had been a different kind.

Mechanically, Petunia Dursley folded the paper, retrieved the envelope from her floor and neatly paced it and the letter on the table by her bed, turned out the light and curled up in her covers, seeking the comforting warmth of her husband.

Closing her eyes tightly, she willed sleep to come, and tomorrow to stay away. Because tomorrow she would discuss its contents with Vernon, and the boy. But before that, upon waking, she'd reply. She had to.

Lying innocently on a wooden table, the letter glowed faintly as the sender checked that it had been received and read. The glow faded last from the seal's path to a star, unbroken and cold.

The three lines, blunt and to the point read as follows:

_Mrs. Petunia Evans Dursley,_

_I wish to know Harry Potter._

_Sagax Iter_

Those lines, unforgettable to one Petunia Dursley, marked a life changing event for Number 4 Privet Drive, but mostly for Harry Potter.

II: Serene Lovegood, Snarget Manor, Unchartable Dovegool Island, Bermuda Triangle

**Snarget** Manor, and most importantly, Dovegool Island, were covered in all manner of defenses, including wards, natural rock formations, and woods rivaling that of Hogwarts' Forbidden Forest in size and species habitat. No one came or went without everyone else knowing, and even though there were places to disappear, no harm could be done unless one was exceedingly foolish. The manor itself was impenetrable to attack, and could house the entire family and then some if something should happen, which it not-so-often did.

This place, their home, was more than theoretically safe and stood through many a crisis, from the time of its creation in uncertain times, to its relocation in the Bermuda Triangle and the Wizard Secrecy Act, two muggle and magical World Wars, and so on. Their family lived and loved here, bringing only those most trusted onto its sentient soil. No one, nothing, could break or damage a single thing, animate or inanimate.

So why, when they were safe from all the dangers of the world in a place that was as much a part of them as their personality, make her feel so empty and anxious? That was the question Serene had been asking herself for the last two years. Her answers, of course, were hardly denied from her thoughts.

Her late husband, the kind and generous man she still loved, had passed away two years ago, right in front of their daughter's eyes. A belated attack, the Ministry had said, on a small town by unnamed Death Eaters. But the killers were never caught, and a belated attack after four years of peace? That was the final cut in a series of lies; the Lovegood clan never trusted the Ministry again.

The Quibbler, the paper her husband helped found, now ran through his great-grandmother, who published whatever she wanted to publish with no problems from the Ministry of Magic. What did they care? It was all garbage, they said. Pathetic, brainwashed excuses for wizards, she thought. If you read between the lines, there was nothing untrue printed in their paper.

Her daughter read the paper, and gave pointers to her cousins, who wrote for it. Her daughter, the future Ravenclaw, just like she and her husband. Her daughter, quiet and thoughtful, just like her father. Her _daughter_, who she couldn't stand to be near because she was too much like her father, in both looks and personality.

This place housed her daughter, was a home to the girl, but not to her. Snarget Manor, where their wedding was held. Dovegool Island, the infamous home of the Lovegood family, the family she had married into.

Maybe it was because of that she felt uneasy. All Lovegood children were born here, always delivered by the aging creature Maket, a living remnant of Ancient Egypt that had somehow founded a home here was well are the Wizarding World's most eccentric family. She, born at St. Mungo's like most pureblood children in these modern times, had no real connection to this place, now that her beloved was dead and her daughter didn't know her face.

Avrul, her daughter. Her one and only child.

Was it normal to only see your offspring once every three months, and then only at a distance? Was it normal for a parent to have no part in their child's life, even when the child could be suffering from the same illness her grandfather had had? Was it normal to have vampires and werewolves, veela even, know your child better than you? Her definition of normality had become so twisted that she hardly knew right from wrong anymore.

Serene felt as if she would go insane if she stayed in this place any longer, this place that held so many memories that now only caused pain.

She needed to get away. Go somewhere were no one knew her name, do something that was so risky and no sane person would attempt. She just... needed to forget, for a time. Not permanently, just, for a little while, to get some relief.

But there was someone she had to see before she left, the only person besides her comatose mother she had to live for: Avrul.

III: Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster's Office, Hogwarts School, Scotland

**Though** summer holidays had started and the halls were absent of the children he loved to teach, Albus Dumbledore sat in his office, looking over the final drafts of teacher's schedules. With a few flourishes of the pen, he signed his name at the bottom, and it was ready to be copied and sent to the teachers. Flicking his want, he animated two quills to make the necessary copies and addressed envelopes.

Relaxing in his chair, the elderly man folded his hands in his lap, thoughts drifting randomly. He had accomplished much in his time on Earth, from discovering the uses of dragon's blood to defeating Grindewald, most importantly becoming the Headmaster of Hogwarts. He loved his job dearly, as well as the privileges and responsibilities that came with it.

But, as he was as human as anyone, he had recently been informed of another of his mistakes.

He thought, and regretted, often of his mistakes in these peaceful times. Peaceful only because of a prophecy and the sacrifice of two promising parents, as well as their child, in a sense. Children were precious and untarnished by the 'evils' of this world, ignorant of what could happen.

Normal children were a blessing to be cherished. But, he was afraid, one Harry Potter would never be normal.

The poor boy would be pulled in every direction upon entering the Wizarding World, prey to the prejudice ideals and political parties who would want not him, but his fame, at their back. He would do everything he could for the boy, of course. But would it be enough?

Sighing, Dumbledore pushed away his musings for the moment. He couldn't do much, yet, just hope that Harry grew up to be an outstanding, and stubborn, young man. His mind, and eyes, focused instead on the rather thick parchment lying under the copying quills.

At exactly eight that morning, a rather large raven flew in carrying a letter. That in itself was not odd, but rather a direct delivery to his office was. Most owls went straight to Minerva's office and were then sent up to his in bulk at the day's end. Ravens, while used by some pureblood families, weren't as reliable as owls, and that dissipated their use. Combined, the letter was an unusual occurrence indeed.

But the information inside...

He hadn't known, hadn't even thought it _possible_, but all the evidence was where the letter said it would be. Everything was placed as if it had all been planned, down to the last detail. And, from what the writer said, it **had**.

How did this person know, he wondered, something even he hadn't discovered yet? All the pieces, right in front of him, but he hadn't completed the puzzle quickly enough. Someone had already died because those _things_ still existed.

The letter said not to blame himself, and he didn't, not consciously. Albus Dumbledore knew that he couldn't be everywhere and do everything like the majority of magical Britain expected him to, though he did his best. If he didn't, he would just have more things to regret.

He had many regrets, but did all he could to make up for past mistakes. Founding the Order was an example, even if its current member rate declined every year.

Dumbledore held his head in his hands, usually sparkling blue eyes filled with sadness. His elbows cushioned by papers he would later have to sort through, the man, only human, removed his glasses to rub between his eyes. Regretting changed nothing, and his was only an unfortunate habit of living a bit too long.

There was nothing he could do but wait for the reply to the reply he had sent to this mysterious entity, hoping it wasn't a trap. But if it was, why send information?

Keeping himself from indulging deeper into his thoughts, Dumbledore placed his hands neatly on his desk and stared at nothing in particular.

The quills stilled, having finished their task, and dropped lightly onto his paper-covered desk. With a flick of his wand, the letters folded themselves and found homes in pre-addressed envelopes. All they needed now was the Hogwarts seal in wax to be sent.

Using his Headmaster ring and a candle, Dumbledore sealed each letter with the school's insignia, and with another flick of the wand, the wax was cooled. Placing them in the Out box (which magically teleported them to Minerva, who currently acted as his secretary until he found a new one), Dumbledore glanced one last time at his paper work. The complete mixed in with the incomplete on his messy desk. It usually wasn't this bad, but since that letter...

Heaving a small sigh, he sat back, ready to manually sort through the disorderly piles. Even though a spell had been invented for such things, Dumbledore never did like to rely on magic for something he could do on his own. It took the joy out of one of this job's greatest benefits: paperwork.

Truly, he was a fruity man.

One parchment in particular, contents all but forgotten, fluttered to the floor as he searched for his ink bottle. In the same neat handwriting that would soon become a renounded symbol of mystery in Magical Europe was a signed name. An enigmatic, Latin name that meant the same as the scene that sealed the Letters. Printed neatly in signature was: **Sagax Iter**.

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**-****Chapter One Complete****-**

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_Sister__ Shadow/Li_


	2. Chapter 2

**Changer of Paths: Another Place**

**By: Sister Shadow / Li**

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Dark, cluttered and quiet: the three constant things that described her room. Towers of books surrounded the desks, dresser and cot, loose papers found everywhere but the floor in varying states, some written fully and perfectly smooth, others crumpled and forgotten in some obscure corner she never bothered to clean.

Once, her cousin had described her haven as a 'library of a room'. That was incorrect; libraries were also quiet, but well organized and brightly lit. They were places of learning and business, whether it be school reports or client gatherings, you could always find what you needed. In her room, there was no system, or near enough light. She knew where everything was, somehow, and could find what was needed easily. One good thing about being bonded to a Shadow Guide was that you could see quite well in the dark.

She had books, loads of them. Tons, even. About any subject, by any author, titled from Aaba's Guide to Quilting to Zymurgy: Everything Wanted to Know and More, ordered in a way not even magic could divine.

She was happy. Happy enough to jump and shriek or scream in excitement. But not for the reason you're thinking.

"It worked, then?" she asked, voice strained from repressing her joy. The person (or thing) she was talking to sat in the shadowed sill of her one window, the only place free of flammable material. They'd only just perched five minutes ago before being bombarded with questions.

That he was empty handed was the answer to her question.

"Yes," was only a formality.

He suddenly found himself crushed against her child-chest, flat since she wasn't even a preteen yet, and uncomfortable without the two cushions that would grown in later years. He squawked and struggled against the tight hold, but to no avail; his form was too small to match.

"Thank the Gods!" she whisper-shrieked, voice high and reedy. It worked, it really worked. Stage the first was set to begin, then.

"Squashing me," he muttered against her collar bone. She didn't hear.

"Thankyou, thankyou, thankyou!" For once, she wasn't acting the part of a little girl.

"Your welcome. You've told me. Now can you let me go?" Struggling was going nowhere; he dropped limp. "Please?" he pleaded as an after thought, hoping the magic word would get her attention.

This time, she listened.

Pulling back as if burned, she set him back on his perch and began to fuss, apologizing profusely. When her words began to run together, he interupted, "I'm fine."

"Oh. Alright then," She relaxed with a relieved sigh. "Thank you. I know I've said so enough times, but-"

"And I've told you 'You're Welcome' over and over. I...am glad I could help." He turned his gaze downward, embarrassed at the sappy turn of their conversation.

"I know. It's your job, but this time, you really have gone out of your way," she told him, still grateful. He needn't have flown the letters for her, but he had anyway. His current form, a black mix of predatory birds, held majesty and demanded respect. He left an impression on anyone who saw him, the perfect carrier of Sagax Iter's messages.

He didn't understand that, without him as the messenger, her letters would hold less presence and importance. What good was the information written it they wasn't read?

"You know..." He was embarrassed but needed to say this. "I'm grateful to you, too."

She kept her face neutral, said nothing, and waited for him to continue.

"Avrul, before... she was a good kid, a genuinely nice person. But, she was always sad. She knew her life would be short and yet... she tried to make the most of it; she really did. But it wasn't enough. There was a heaviness around her that just evoked pity and compassion. No matter what she did, how hard she tried, it never went away.

"But you... You came and everything lifted. No more sorrow, or weariness, or pity; she hated that the most. This place is brighter from you, and… I think we all benefit from it." He blushed as much as a bird could and continued to stare at the wood grains of the bookshelf his perch sat atop.

She grinned widely, amused by his embarassment. "Thank you. I really mean it."

"I know," he muttered. "But there is no need to say it."

She laughed and ruffled his feathers playfully. He glared and began to preen.

Her name was Avrul Silvanus Hallward Lovegood, and he, her shadow, was known only as Umbrae, Latin for what he was.

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**Chapter ****Two****Circumstance**

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I: Serene Lovegood, Snarget Manor, Unchartable Dovegool Island, Bermuda Triangle

**Serene **hesitated, unsure and close to hyperventilating. Here she stood, before her daughter's door, not knowing what to do. Knock, with fist or book-shaped doorknocker? Call out, but what to say?

Finally, she gathered her shreds of courage (_I have to. She deserves to know_.) and knocked tentatively, using her fist. The wood was hard and dark, cold to the touch, and unyielding as any good door should be.

She hoped the room wasn't soundproof save for the knocker. Serene didn't know; Siria, the Lady Lovegood and her late husband's grandmother, who made and assigned rooms, was the only one to know.

There was a faint rustling (_good, she heard; nervous, heart pounding, maybe not_) and the sound of many papers moving. Clearing a path? Her father did that, to get to the door after holing himself up for 72 hours. Had done; he was gone now. Have to remember, can't believe she hadn't; have to remember that. Can't ever forget.

"Gale," her daughter yelled, only meters away from the door, referring to her older, vampiric cousin, "if you had another fight with Viv and are too shy to go to the Madam again, I won't-" The door opened, and when it wasn't Gale, she stopped abruptly.

They stared, silence awkward, at one another for a good five minutes before Avrul cleared her throat. "Can I help you, Miss Hallward?"

There were many things slowly driving her down, down, down. Many, many things. The reminders of her lost love, the daily routines that held no meaning anymore, the casual glimpses of her daughter who reminded her the most of Silvanus. But the one thing that topped all others cut her heart a wound that would never heal.

Her daughter, lovely, lovely child, didn't know she was her mother. Didn't remember her, didn't know her, the person who cherished her as a reason for living. No one had the heart to explain to Avrul.

Serene didn't know when the girl forgot, how or why, she only knew the reality of knowing something but being unable to explain, to leave the person she loved best in the dark 'for her own good'. She quoted the Lady Lovegood, who made all desions in the end, whether it was understood or not.

Daughter denied mother unknowingly, and that made the hurt all the worse.

"You can call me Serene," she said softly, aware of their shared discomfort. Her mind was screaming to tell the truth, ranting and raving and hoping she would listen. She wouldn't; her self control was fueled by the thought that Avrul would yell and scream and say 'You aren't my mother!' That would break her already cracking self into innumerable shards not even the finest healers at St. Mungo's could heal.

"Alright, Miss Serene," her daughter said with a shy smile. Her father's smile.

Serene began to tremble. (_Can't__ do this, __I'__m trying but I can__'__t, can__'__t, can__'__t_.) Too much familiarity, too many reminders; she hugged herself and hunched over. Breathing in out, in out in an attempt to calm down, she looked everywhere but her child's concerned face.

"Are you alright, Miss Serene?" the girl asked, hovering over the woman, unsure of what to do. "Do I need to call Madam Mankale?"

"No," Serene said sharply, forcefully. Avrul backed away, surprised that such a loud noise could come from someone in her current state, whatever that happened to be.

II: Petunia Dursley4 Privet Drive, Surrey

**When **Petunia awoke the next morning, she noticed the absent bulk of her husband and the continued presence of the Letter. The glowing numbers of her alarm clock read 7:24; rare for Vernon to be up and about this early on an off day. Odd, hadn't he mentioned any plans beyond burning the Letter. So why was it still intact?

It sat on her bedside table, folded neatly with the envelope on top, emitting a soft glow. Wait, glow?

Before panic and fear of the unnatural could overwhelm her sense of reason, the light dimmed and the papers rustled. The envelope flipped over, revealing wiggling ink marks rearranging into new words which read: _Sagax Iter, Somewhere, Likely Nowhere_.

Slipping under the Letter, Petunia watched, frozen, as the parchment was unfolded by nonexistent hand. Ink twisted like a snake nest on the once short page, expanding into an official form. The header and summary stated that the recipient of this form would be allowed contact with the second part, namely Harry Potter. No space was left blank, everything filled out with the same neat writing as before, save the bottom line, requiring a guardian's signature of permission.

Unwilling to touch it, feeling skin crawl even being near it, she yanked her covers back, scrambling away in frenzy. Quickly up and out of the room, tripping only twice, Petunia slammed her door shut, hoping the space and surface between her and the freakish _thing_ would be enough.

Panting and scared, she leaned against the hard surface, mind racing for what to do.

A single, comforting thought dominated all others, '_Vernon will know what to do; he always does._'

She conveniently forgot her husband's former gambling debts and alcohol addiction before their marriage, and Vernon's attitude changed from lovey-dovey to demanding soon after.

Heading downstairs, mind comforted by semi-delusions, Petunia didn't notice the Letter-turned-form following her. Harry, on the way back to his cupboard after a strained breakfast, however, did. He knew that 'magic wasn't real' and unnatural things (like him) were to be loathed and punished (inward snort), but he couldn't help wonder what kind of wind made a paper blow after his aunt's heals.

The thick paper twitched, as if noting his attention, and formed the likeness of eyes, turned in his direction and… winked at him.

Blinking, confused and curiosity rising, Harry watched the paper speed faster after Aunt Petunia, catching up in the kitchen.

He was slightly disoriented, head full of new thoughts and possibilities, as he climbed into his door and sat on the mattress. For the second day in a row, Harry lost himself in thought, and the Dursley family thought it an improvement.

III: Hospital Wing, Snarget Manner, Dovegool Island

One would never, upon entering, call the Hospital Wing of Snarget Manner a terribly used facility; expect, perhaps, if there were an epidemic or a war raging, both producing patients needing immediate, professional medical attention. This clinic has been used on multiple occasions for quarantine and wartime infirmary, though beings with mixed magical and creature blood or creatures themselves usually requested treatment, as St. Mungo's and other wizarding hospitals refused help to all but witches and wizards.

Day to day life caused no serious injuries because of the wards protecting the island. Even broken bones were prevented, the landing softened by the impacted surface giving way. Snarget Manner was mostly sentient, conscious manipulation escaping it in the owlery, dungeons, and outside grounds.

A bruise here, a twisted ankle there; nothing much to heal. The above could be fixed with a wand tap or two if the Healer was competent, which Madam Mankale certainly was. She wanted a challenge! Not to sit at her desk, reviewing the medical records of the Lovegood family.

Not that she wished harm on any of her patients, particularly the fragile woman sleeping just a way down the room.

There was always a Healer on staff, even if nothing was likely to happen; no one ever said the Lovegoods weren't prepared. Either the certified medi-witch of twenty-five years Madam Mankale, sitting at her front desk, beds obscured by spelled curtains, or the creature Maket in his wizen smaller form, cowering behind the drapes, comfortable only when doing service, were there. If one was absent, they were most certainly on call, just incase an even the other couldn't handle alone occurred.

Madam Mankale, near the beginning of her morning shift, was called by Avrul, the youngest resident, over Floo intercom. "Miss Hallward has collapsed outside my room. Please hurry." There'd been panic in the child's voice, and the Healer had arrived as quickly as possible.

Bringing back the widow using _Mobilcorpus_ proved easy and uneventful, likely because Avrul lived in the farthest wing from others. They encountered no one.

After laying the unconscious woman down and starting the examination, the dark haired girl hovering anxiously, the intercom sounded again. "Avrul, please come to Lady Lovegood's office. Your grandmother wishes to see you."

Formal titles like 'Lady Lovegood' were only used for serious matters. If the Lady was calling, and using the girl's first name, it meant trouble.

She'd given the girl a reassuring pat on the shoulder, for all the good it would do, and sent the girl on her way. Lady Siria may be strict and cold, but the worst she would do was lecture.

Now, three hours of waiting while flipping through records had put her in an irate mood. Madam Mankale felt frustrated, and expressed her displeasure with a too firm touch on the papers and frowning, twitchy expression.

From the test results, magical and muggle, Serene Hallward was, if slightly underweight, healthy. Nothing, physically, was wrong.

Madam Mankale wasn't a mind healer or a therapist, but she knew some. When Serene woke up, she could recommend them, but until then…

"You can come in, Maket," she said, aware of his presence for several minutes. She didn't look up as the door opened and closed with only the faintest swing or sound, the small creature stalking quietly over to where she worked.

"Madam," he scratchily addressed her. His voice always sounded like he'd just swallowed a desert's worth of sand. "May I see the patient?"

She did look up at his request; it was rare for him to speak without averted eyes and much stammering. Maket was a shy thing, and she wondered how he continued to be, stuck in this place of out-going, eccentric people that no doubt scared him half to death by presence alone.

'_Then again_,' she thought, '_Serene _is _Avrul's mother. He would do anything for that girl._'

Avrul was kind, like her father, and loved to help others, especially if it involved research or books. Maket, who remembered nothing before waking to his Master's touch, the Lovegood ancestor who found and brought him here, wanted to know what he was. The Lovegoods had a massive collection of records, from pages stating the rice crop and taxes of the Han Dynasty, to the diary of Ravenclaw's first student.

If there were information about Egyptian creatures like Maket anywhere, it would be in the Lovegood Private Collection(or the Department of Mysteries, but he didn't really feel like being a research subject just yet-- read, never).

Avrul helped him look.

They still searched, when either got the chance, together or apart, but only brief mentions of things described in the hieroglyphs of Maket's tomb were mentioned in passing on those ancient scrolls.

"Of course, Maket," the Madam said to him, looking him over. He wore a clean smock over a house-self-issue, the perfect size for his small form. His bald, earless head was at odds with his rather house-elf-like body appearance, skin wrinkled and sandy, smooth on the head and sides. Brown eyes meeting her's, determined and professional, told her she couldn't say no. "She has no physical injuries; it's all mental."

"Yes," the creature agreed, turning his attention to the unconscious woman behind the screen. From what she knew of his abilities, his sight was unhindered by the spelled clothe.

"Are you going to pull her out of it?" she asked, knowing the risks of him diving into another's mind. Learned from his former Master, it was an ability taught to advanced mind healers, letting their conscious self dive deep into another's psyche. Unlike Legilimency, there is no chance of harming the other, only you. If you dive too deeply, the other mind defends itself by attacking or accommodating you, absorbing your knowledge and very self, pushing your consciousness to the darkest depths of their mind where you'd lose your sense of self and become a part of that person absolutely.

Dangerous for him, and yet, he used it readily when a member of the Lovegoods needed his help.

Maket said he still owned them a great debt, but in Madam Mankale's mind, he'd paid it thrice over in service.

His smile was the first she'd seen on him in a very long time, "Yes. And you needn't worry, Madam. Miss Serene isn't that deep down."

How he could tell just by looking was an ability she had yet to question.

"Alright, Maket. If you need anything-"

"I will ask," he said with out-of-character confidence, still smiling.

He pulled back the curtain and walked through, letting it flap minutely despite his entry. She heard him setting up to work, the strange words of an ancient language flowing throw her as he chanted.

Madam Mankale returned to her paper work when again there was silence. It would be a while yet before either Maket or Avrul were done.

IV: Small shack in the woods, Location Unknown

An owl pecked on his window.

For the past three years he'd been in hiding, corresponding with only Professor Dumbledore. Only the Headmaster knew his location, kept secret not by the _Fidelus _Charm but by shut mouth alone.

Who, besides that man, would send him a letter?

Obviously someone, since the owl continued to peck insistently on the glass.

"Go away," he murmured, voice cracking from lack of use. Fawkes always brought Albus' messages; someone had discovered his location and bothered to send a letter. Why?

He wasn't certain he wanted to know.

The noise stopped; he sighed in relief. Relaxing, he hoped the bird would just go away and leave him alone.

There was another noise, the clicking of a latch, and suddenly his window was open. Flying through, settling on the overturned chair inches away from his reclining foot, he got a good look at the 'owl'.

The creature, more of a raptor than an owl, matched his intelligent gaze with sharp gold eyes. Dark feathers, glistening with hints of grey in the dim light, lay smooth and gleaning, not one scoffed or out of place. He (somehow he knew it was male) sat straight and proud, looking wild despite the message attached to his leg.

The bird hopped from the chair to the messy floor, over the thrown bed sheet and up onto his leg, careful of long talons and sharp tail feathers. Head tilted at an angle to eye him better, the majestic one seemed to outright scoff at his appearance and the state of his 'home'.

Once a bright place of two rooms(one for a kitchen and one for everything else), it had digressed into state of uncleanness; chairs were toppled, his table broken in two, dirty dishes and clothes lay in piles together, the kitchen smelled like something unholy and he couldn't begin to guess what. Everything but the bed he leaned against was dusty. His most frequent place, the bed, was messy in a tidy away, unlike the rest of the place.

He looked away from the creature's unusual eyes, similar in color to his own but full of something an animal shouldn't have.

Majestic and dignified, the bird drew his attention by sticking his talon in a sensitive place, displaying the letter for his to take. There was a clear threat from his foot, so the letter was quickly removed.

The smug dark being took off, stopping on the window seal with a last glance (and was that a wink?), before taking flight again, free for the sky.

Staring after it, fingering the thick parchment in his hands, he regained himself after many moments of contemplation.

The letter was addressed to him in unfamiliar, neat handwriting, titled with his name and below 'Location Unknown'. What a competent bird, to find someone by name alone. He then remembered the unnatural intelligence to his eyes, and wondered if he was an animagus.

After great thought, and with great care, he opened the letter.

"_Dear Mr. Remus J. Lupin,_

_My name is Sagax Iter, and I regret to inform you that your wallowing has been for nothing. On the following pages you shall find useful information. What ever course of action you take upon learning these details, remember: You have allies. I offer my full support._

_As you do not know me, and will not doubt be suspicious, I advice you to contact Headmaster Albus Dumbledore. While he knows little about whom I am or my reasons, he knows I am trustworthy._

_Mr. Moony, you are not the only one left._

_Sincerely,  
Sagax Iter"_

Remus gaped at what he read on the next few pages. "If this is true, than… I was wrong all along…" He whimpered in sympathy for his friend. "Oh, Sirius…"

This was shaping up to be some interesting material.

He was determined, the more he read, to free his friend and change the lives of those of his kind. After all, with this information, he was nai unstoppable.

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**-Chapter Two Complete-**

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_Sister Shadow_


End file.
